


Mantra

by lilbluednacer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Freeform, Minor Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbluednacer/pseuds/lilbluednacer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Winchester man craves three things</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mantra

**Author's Note:**

> When you cant get pre-canon Dean out of your head and end up with whatever this is

He's a kid the first time he hears Dad say it, stretched out on the couch at Pastor Jim's, cleaning one of his guns between slugs from a bottle of whiskey.

Sammy's asleep on his lap, curled up like a puppy, all chubby baby fat and soft floppy hair. Dean's five or six, his baby brother's tiny fingers clutching his wrist, and Dad says:

"A Winchester man craves three things. A gun in one hand, a drink in the other, and a woman between his legs."

Then he laughs manically, that wild look in his eye that tells Dean he's wasted, and his arms tighten around Sammy.

He hears it so many times that eventually it gets distilled down to the most important parts, running through his head like a mantra:

Gun. Drink. Woman.

 

_i. Gun_

He receives his first gun when he's eight. It's a Beretta, which is totally a chick gun, because of the weight, but Dad says it's just until his hands gets bigger and can handle the kick. They take it in the back behind Bobby's house and he practices on targets, cans of Coke lined up in a row.

If someone had taken the time then, to explain the concept of destiny to him, attempted to illustrate why there was such a _rightness_ to this, that heavy weight in his hand, Dean would've stared blankly, or maybe shrugged.

Bad things happen because the world is a cold cruel place and there ain't no point crying over it. There is no reason why, no angels weeping over him.

He shoots because he's a hunter, because it's what they do, who they are. Because someone has to do it and Dean, the good little soldier, never questions why him, why them.

Some things just are.

Dean hits ten out of ten targets and Dad whoops, calls him a natural, and that's all that matters.

Dad teaches him how to load and unload the gun at Bobby's kitchen table. Makes him practice for hours, timing him on his watch, until the movements are rote, smooth and practiced, like changing Sammy's diaper or brushing his teeth.

Dad ups the ante, makes him practice blindfolded, until his hands know the Beretta like she's a part of his own body.

She's the first thing he really loves, besides Sammy. And his mom, but she's dead, and he knows dead things don't count, and if you let them you're only hurting yourself.

 

_ii. Drink_

There's a girl sitting on the railing outside the motel room, a six pack of beer on the cement floor by her dangling feet.

He can only see her back, the top of her ass peeking over the waistband of her jeans, but he's pretty sure she's the girl in the room next to them, the one with the mother who looks more like her sister, who leaves every night in a man's car and doesn't come back until early morning.

It's July in Nevada and they've been here for two months, slowly cooking in the oppressive heat. Dean's restless, and lonely, and vaguely horny in a way that only reinforces the loneliness.

Dad is who knows where tonight, hunting who knows what, and Sammy's asleep, long gangly legs and bony feet hanging over the side of the bed. Dean pockets the key to the room and slips out barefoot, closing the door softly behind him.

He comes up beside her, leaning against the railing. She's pretty, long dark hair and blue eyes rimmed in heavy black liner, and she gives him a perfunctory glance, slick pink lips curving into a smile.

He's fourteen and all he knows is that she's older, tantalizing cleavage spilling over a yellow tank top and smooth creamy thighs clad in denim cuff-offs.

"You can have one if you want." Nodding to the beer on the cement floor, all cool and casual in a way that Dean envies.

"Thanks." It's flat, tastes like piss, but her lips are so pink around the rim of the bottle and he finds himself chugging it.

She laughs and hands him another. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Too hot." The alcohol makes him warmer but it's a different kind of heat, something slow that spreads from the pit of his stomach out towards his limbs.

"I couldn't either." She throws her bottle out in the direction of the parking lot. It shatters, brown shards of glass scattering over the pavement. "Here, gimme another."

He hands her another bottle from the pack and her fingers brush against his, clean and slim, seashell pink painted nails. "You've been here awhile."

He stares out into the blackness. "Haven't you?"

She swings her legs. "I guess so."

Her thigh brushes his forearm and the heat turns electric. He drinks his beer, watches her watch him out of the corner of her eye. She sighs, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "Wanna go somewhere?"

His dick twitches in his jeans. "Can't." He gives her mournful smile and tilts his head in the direction of his room. "My little brother might need me."

"Where's your dad?"

He shrugs. "Where's your mom?"

Her expression flattens. "Fucking some guy."

"Parents," he says weakly, a joke, and she snorts.

They stay out there until they kill the six pack and then she swings down from the railing, straightens her spine. To his total surprise she curls her fingers around his wrist. "Come on, my room has AC."

He follows her inside, flattens one palm against the wall their rooms share. Imagines Sammy on the other side, waking up alone and scared.

"Hey." Something hits him in the face and he sputters in surprise, grasping a ball of yellow fabric.

Oh. _Oh_. She's wearing a little pink bra, mesh with a blue bow in the center, and everything goes blank inside his head. He walks toward her on autopilot and she smiles, crawls onto the bed and lays back, crooks her finger at him.

He gets one knee up on the bed and then she's pulling him down by the back of his neck to kiss. She tastes like beer and strawberry lip gloss.

He crouches over her, all soft skin and her tongue swirling around his. He wants to consume her, drink her up and bury himself in her, get lost in her sweet, sweet skin and idly wonders if she's as soft and pink inside.

She gets her legs around his waist and he swallows a moan, grips the cheap motel bedspread to stop himself from rutting against her cause even though she's clearly experienced she's little, fine boned and lithe and he doesn't want to scare her away with the _want_ , how he'd do anything to her right now, if she'd let him.

She makes a soft kitten whine in the back of her throat and wriggles, and he's caught in the cradle of her hips, dick hard against the seam of his jeans. One hand goes to her stomach, slow, and she doesn't stop him so he slips it under her shirt, skin like silk, feels taut muscle jump under his palm.

"Jesus," she breathes, reaching under his shirt to grip his hips, hands hot on his skin. "You're like, _so_ beautiful. God."

He smirks and bends over her throat, suckles thin delicate skin, like a flower petal, just enough to make her gasp and then she bucks up into him.

A growl tears its way out of his throat.

She whimpers and does it again, shoves her hips up into him, and when his hand drifts to the button of her shorts she nods, frantic, reaching down to help him and lifting her hips up so he can tug the offending denim down, revealing, _Jesus_ , an electric blue thong.

Something sways inside him, the room tilts a little. Adds up the three-no, four- beers, so okay, he's drunk but he's got it under control. She pants underneath him, coy little smile on her face. "You okay, baby?"

He shakes his head, leans down on one elbow to cup her, stunned by the heat radiating off her skin and thin blue fabric already damp, a wet line seeping through-

He has to feel her, follows the alcohol buzz where it directs him, fingers crawling under the blue mesh to skin like velvet, and he almost gasps at the shock of it, wet and warm and woman, right under his hand.

She reaches down and laces her fingers through his, slides them up to show him a smooth little bump that makes her gasp when he presses the tip of his finger to it. He repeats the move, watching her face, mouth slack, eyes wide and wanting.

"Like this?" he says, soft and low, because he's a soldier and orders are something he knows how to follow, prides himself on being the best, executes whatever is asked of him.

"Yeah," she pants, and rolls her hips. "Just like that."

So he curls over her, ignores the throbbing demand of his cock, and touches her, watches her shudder and quake. Loses himself in her, fingers buried in _hot_ and _wet_ and so magically, mysteriously female. Doesn't stop until she's shaking all over, fingernails digging into the back of his neck and then she cries out, hips pumping like crazy, and he comes in his jeans, dizzy and limp.

She kisses him when he leaves, murmurs _thank you baby_ , into his ear. Sammy's still sleeping and in the morning he's got a pounding headache, has to chug water all day and doesn't eat 'til dinner.

It's something he thinks about for years later, every time he gets drunk, the memory crumpled but still visceral. Her wet squeeze on his fingers and his belly full of fire, drunk and lost and always, always, wanting more.

 

_iii. Woman_

He's not looking for a girl that night.

There's an aching Sam-sized hole in the center of his chest, Dad's two states away and he's alone, recovering from a cracked rib, in Philadelphia.

His only intention is to go out and get as drunk as physically possible until the month-old agony of Sam's departure fades until it's only buzz in the background.

He's tossing back his third glass of whiskey (he's drinking for maximum effect tonight, not sport) when he spots her, four barstools down from him.

She's beautiful but in kind of a severe way, a little too thin, blond hair brushed tightly back into a perfect ponytail. She's not dressed like a girl looking to meet a man; she's wearing a black turtleneck sweater and jeans with a hole in one knee, cradling a glass of white wine in one slim hand.

She must sense his eyes on her because she turns and makes eye contact. She doesn't smile or blush, just stares him down, expressive grey eyes narrowing on his, unflinchingly.

He gives her the barest of smiles and looks away. Another night he'd be up for a challenge but he's spent, he and Dad got in a blowout three days ago before they separated, his ribs ache like a son of a bitch, and he sees his brother's face every time he closes his eyes.

Even a woman can't ease his sorrow right now.

But a few minutes later he feels a familiar heat on the back of his neck and when he turns she's scanning him, eyes flicking down to his boots and back up to his lips, his hair. Her eyebrow lifts, just a bit, and she looks away.

But then she looks back at him, his empty drink and says, in this dry crackling voice, "So. What are you trying to forget?"

A little taken aback, he blinks at her and looks back down at his glass. "Too many things, sweetheart."

She nods at that, holds one finger up to the bartender, and there's suddenly a fresh glass of whiskey in front of him. "I'll drink to that."

"Thanks."

She shrugs. "Misery loves company. Consider it a fringe benefit."

He eyes her glass of wine. "What about you?"

She makes a face. "My life, I guess." Her expression shifts back to neutral and she signals again at the bartender, making a sign for her check.

He tosses back the whiskey, the pounding in his ribs softening, along with everything else. "Good luck with that."

She closes out her tab, hops off her stool and slides into a plaid-checked raincoat. Then she stops and lingers, cool fingertips brushing over his wrist. "You coming?"

He's too buzzed to want anything other than to just go with it.

He allows himself to really look for the first time. She doesn't have any of the usual traits he goes for: feistiness, obvious sex appeal, the kind of girl who's looking for a good time but won't be crushed if he doesn't call.

This girl looks like she's already been crushed, maybe by a man or maybe just by life, bruises under her eyes, a sense of real loneliness under her cool demeanor.

And then she blinks up at him with celluloid eyes and whispers, _please?_

He steps a little closer, so they're toe-to-toe, watching how she pulls back just the slightest bit. "You sure? You don't even know me."

Her head tilts back and for the first time she smiles. "Maybe that's the appeal."

He follows her out on the street, his hand low on the small of her back. She hails a cab with careful elegance, raising a practiced arm, her light hair glowing against the streetlights.

She directs the driver to a glass high rise in the heart of downtown. They take the elevator in silence all the way to the top floor. She leads him down a hall and unlocks a door to a open plan loft apartment, all glass and chrome and shadow.

Behind the glass the city stretches out below them in panoramic view, glittering in the dark.

He raises an eyebrow at her. "You a princess or something?"

Her cheeks flush and she shakes her head. "No. Um, my parents...they died last year. Car accident. The life insurance policy was, well, absurd really."

She glances up at him and he can read it in her eyes, the way she's suddenly completely self-conscious.

He walks towards her slowly, breath shallow so he doesn't feel that crack of pain in his left rib. "I'm sorry," he says, and he is, for this pretty young woman whose loneliness is palpable in the sparsely furnished, obscenely sized apartment.

Her eyelashes flutter nervously but she stands her ground. "I don't want you to feel sorry for me."

He reaches out and cups her hipbones in his hands. She really is small, he wants to lie on his back in her marble foyer and let her ride him with his hands just like this, fingers sinking into the flesh of her lower back.

"What do you want?" he asks, in that low honey-toned voice that drives them all crazy.

She curls her fingers over his wrists. "I just want to forget for a little while." And then she blushes a little. "Does that make sense?"

He nods and she laughs, a pretty little tinkle, like a bell. "Oh, right," she says. "That's why you were drinking in the first place."

He runs his thumb under the hem of her shirt. "Maybe we can forget together."

She shivers when he touches her skin, he feels her suck in her breath when his fingertips wander over her stomach. "Do you, um, want anything? Another drink?"

He's got that heavy warmth deep in his belly but his limbs feel light and loose. "If I drink anymore this isn't gonna end the way I'd like it to."

"Oh," she whispers, giving him wide eyes. "Do you...want to see my room then?"

He tips his head down and kisses her, light, feeling her sharp little intake of breath. "Whatever you want, sweetheart."

She pulls away and her pupils are blown. "Look, I don't do this a lot..."

"It's okay," he reassures her. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

She smiles but there's something underneath it, something sad. "Your mama raised a good one, didn't she?"

"Not exactly," he confesses. "She died when I was a kid."

She pulls back, looking stricken. "How?"

"House fire."

She reaches up and traces his cheekbone with her fingers. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It was a long time ago."

She nods at that and slides her hands into his. "Come on," she says, and leads him down a hallway towards the master bedroom.

In her bathroom, with a gorgeous tiled marble floor and a gigantic claw foot tub, Dean takes off his shirt and removes his Bowie knife from his jeans; wraps it carefully up in his sleeve. His reflection in the mirror looks bad, heavy lidded eyes, sallow skin. He splashes some cold water over his face, inspects the bruise over his ribs - it's fading to a greenish-yellow, ugly but not scary.

The whiskey really hits when he goes into her bedroom, the room tilting around a huge king sized bed, and the woman (shit, did he even get her name?) waiting for him, stripped down to a cream-pink slip. Her eyes widen when she takes him in and he realizes she's looking at the bruise. Then she gives him a sheepish smile, like she's been caught, and holds her arms out to him.

He crawls up on the bed to her, sinking against the heavy pillow top mattress and silky blue duvet with little buttons sewn on. His jeans get caught on one of them and he reaches down and pushes them off, sprawled out on her bed in only a pair of worn grey boxer briefs. Then she's right up next to him, the only solid thing in the room that's beginning to spin, and he reaches up and gets one hand around her ponytail, tugs on the hairband to slide it out.

She shakes her head so blond strands fan out around her face and gives him an impish grin. "Got a hair thing?"

"Maybe," he says, and splays one hand on the small of her back to pull her closer.

She's warm and very soft against him and he sighs, smoothes her hair back from her face. Up close her eyes are very blue and very glassy.

"How...drunk are you?" he asks, fingers gliding over the satin of her slip.

She curls into him and then there are warm lips on his neck. "Pretty drunk," she admits. "So don't feel self-conscious."

"We don't-we don't," he tries to say, but his brain is _not fucking working_ , everything is spinning and what is he doing here anyway, in this ridiculous apartment with a pretty orphan girl?

And then she slides a leg in between his and his nervous system lights up like a string of firecrackers. "What if I want to?" she whispers.

He kisses her then, a real kiss, soft and slow with pressure behind it. She opens up under his mouth like a flower, lips parting to allow his tongue to sweep around her lips. She moans so he keeps kissing her, the weight of her thigh pushing against his dick keeping him grounded.

She slurs something into his mouth, like _more_ , so he keeps kissing her, pushing into her when she pulls, lets the rhythm of it pull him under. Surrenders to her, the wet heat of her mouth, hands wrapped around her warm thighs.

They kiss for a long time and then he drifts for awhile, eyes shut, warm and sleepy, lips catching lazily on her earlobe, her neck, her collarbone. He actually relaxes enough to almost fall asleep, because when he opens his eyes he's got his mouth on her breasts, and her hand is stroking the back of his neck.

He inhales, she smells like honey and milk, and something inside him aches sharply, something that feels like _Mom_ and _Sammy_. He pulls away, sliding down the bed until he's level with her knees; she's watching him with wide eyes.

"Can I go down on you?" he asks bluntly, because why not, already rolling up her slip.

She groans, falling back against the pillows, which he takes as a yes, and pushes the silk fabric up to her stomach. Her thighs are pushed together and he has to pry them apart, murmuring to her, _relax, relax, let me, gonna make you feel so good, so good sweetheart_.

He spreads her with his fingers and she squeaks, he'd laugh but he's too occupied with mapping her out, peeling soft lips open to reveal dusty pink, glistening and aching for him.

He starts slow, little kitten licks and nuzzles, and she moans, from deep in her belly. Very slowly builds up a rhythm because why rush, he's got all night and what does he have to get back to, anyway? She mewls, fingers gripping his hair, and he goes in for the kill, two fingers pushing into her while his tongue dances around her clit. She starts to cry out, pushing shamelessly against his mouth, and this, right here, is where Dad is wrong:

Not between his legs, _no_ , between _hers_ , the source of everything, life itself, where it's liquid heat and he can see and taste and feel it all.

This, right here, is what Dean craves.

She arches her back when she comes, gasping like the air has been smacked out of her lungs. He works her down until she cries out for mercy, hands reaching for him. A condom is produced out of nowhere, and he fucks her in the dark, moonlight slicing across the shadows of her bedroom.

He fucks her and idly thinks about how he'll leave her, the way he leaves all of them, and wonders while she's clenching hard around him, holy words spilling out of her mouth, if she'll think of him later, when he's gone.

If she'll touch herself, craving him the way he already knows he'll crave her, another ghost in his review mirror. If it'll eat her up inside, send her into another man's arms, if it'll feel the way it does for him, like there's a hole deep inside him that cannot be filled no matter how much he drinks or shoots or fucks.

But for now there's whiskey in his veins and a woman between his legs, hot and tight, whispering in his ear to _come, want to watch you come, you beautiful boy_.

Dean shuts his eyes.


End file.
